


The Valentine

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly reflects on the evolution of her love life and her friendship with Sherlock when John delivers a special card from Sherlock before his exile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Valentine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tardisjournal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisjournal/gifts).



> I wanted to write a Valentine's story in time for Valentine's Day, and now that I've finished series 3 I was able to go back and give a gift to a fellow member of the wonderful **land_deduction** landcomm. **tardisjournal** made a [wonderful](http://s3.postimg.org/4b0j45zjn/Valentines_Day_Card_Frontwithdropshadow_zps7dd994bd.png) [Valentine's](http://s3.postimg.org/ga7fxqfqr/Valentines_Card_Inside_Rightwithdropshadow_zps19373.png) [Day](http://s3.postimg.org/m2c5imeyb/Valentines_Card_Inside_Leftwithdropshadow_zps888286.png) [card](http://s3.postimg.org/jigioireb/Valentines_Day_Card_Backwithdropshadowrevised_zps1a.png) (links show you each part of the card) from Sherlock to Molly for a challenge and I said last year I would write a fic about it. This is the fic. As such, the actual card in the fic is not mine. I hope you enjoy it, **tardisjournal**!

She had never been the type to get Valentine's Day cards. When she was in school she wasn't the prettiest or most popular; boys generally tended to ignore her for someone more flashy, more beautiful, more charismatic. She had known she was mousy and plain from an early age, and as year after year went by she started to accept that she would never be the type to catch someone's eye. She had attempted for a bit when she started to have an interest in boys, begging her mum for prettier clothes and make-up when she was old enough. She'd tried straightening her hair to get it to lay flat and not be so frizzy, she'd tried unbuttoning an extra button or two on her blouse buttons when she finally developed breasts, and she'd tried plucking her eyebrows to get them perfectly arched. But every attempt she made to make herself more appealing to the opposite sex backfired on her and she felt uglier and plainer when it was all over. After a while she stopped trying.

When she got to university she found alcohol helped. When the boys were just as pissed as she was they weren't as picky. Her first time was probably a pity shag, she'd realized years after the fact. Either that or she'd been the one the friend needed to go after so the desirable man could get her friend. Regardless, the man hadn't talked to her again even though he saw her on campus. After a while the drunken shags got old and she gave up on them, too. Every once in a while someone might show a slight interest in her, and hope blossomed deep inside her that maybe, this time, things would work out. Sometimes she got a couple of dates, but most of the time nothing came of it.

It wasn't until she was older, out of medical school and into her residency, that she got attention. It was the worst possible timing, of course, but having a boyfriend was quite nice. And he was a good bloke, too, for the most part. Dealt well with the fact he didn't see her often, made her feel special when they were together. It was what she had been missing all that time. But inevitably the lack of time spent together took their toll. He broke it off a week before Valentine's Day, but at least he did it in a way that didn't end in anger. He sat with her at her home and they talked, and in the end they agreed it simply wasn't the best time for a relationship. She went back to her residency and he moved on, and while they were still friendly even now she realized as a couple they never would have worked in the long run. She wasn't anything at all like the woman he ended up settling down with, nor did she want to be.

Finally, when it was all said and done and she was now Dr. Molly Hooper, she settled in at St. Bart's. She hadn't been there long when she met Sherlock Holmes for the first time. She fancied him so quickly it surprised her, especially when he spent the entire time being a massive twat. But he was stunning, in a not quite conventional way, and he was intelligent and he was _fascinating_ and she was entranced. So of course he was never going to pay her any mind that way. She tried everything to entice him. She even paraded Jim from IT through his lab, not that he had noticed. Of course, there was more to all of it than she knew, more to Jim and his connection to Sherlock. But at the time she just knew it didn't work and maybe it was time to accept he'd never see her that way.

By the time he did tell her something she'd always longed to hear, that she had counted, that she actually mattered to him, everything was all wrong. He cared, but not the way she'd wanted. But really, that wasn't important at the moment; Moriarty had destroyed his reputation and he was going to have to fake his death and he needed her help. Men didn't really need her for anything important, just a random shag or some money. Sherlock needed her to pull off something that would save the lives of people she cared about. He needed her to keep his secret, to not let on that she knew the truth. And she helped, of course she helped. It was important and it would help keep so many people safe.

Watching him fall from the roof was the hardest part of it all, knowing that if even one tiny thing went wrong he could die, but soon it was time for her to do her part and she couldn't worry anymore. When it was all over Sherlock was smuggled to her home. He insisted on her bedroom, saying he needed his space, and she didn't argue. She'd have given him anything he wanted right then because she knew what was coming was going to be hard, harder than anything else he'd had to endure so far. Mostly he wanted to talk, rambling on for hours about all sorts of things. But he also wanted to learn more about her. He knew a lot of the basics, he said, but there were depths to her he'd ignored and he wanted to know them. He'd made a crack at saying dead men should get one last request, and she'd glared at him for a moment before she went into the story of her life. By the time she helped him alter his appearance three weeks later she felt he had every piece to the puzzle that was her.

She mourned him for a bit, for appearances sake, but then she had to act like she was moving on. In reality she'd moved past the crush around Christmas, when she'd done the autopsy on the woman with the bashed in face that he'd recognized. As much as she had fancied him he'd never seemed the type to want to shag someone, and since that was the only way he'd have known what her naked body looked like in her mind then that was a definite sign he had absolutely no interest in her. When he told her the truth about the woman and how he had known what her body looked like it hadn't mattered, and that was how she knew she'd never fancy him again, or if she did it would never be to the level it had been before. She was going to move on, try and have a good relationship with a wonderful man and be happy.

Tom wasn't the one she'd thought she'd find happiness with. She'd thought he was a little strange at first, since he was awkward around her, but soon she realized he was awkward because he was attracted to her. He asked her for coffee, and when that was over she asked him to dinner, and then there was a third date and a fourth and soon they were exclusive. She knew there were similarities to Sherlock, of course; she'd have been blind not to notice them. But really, she hadn't _tried_ to find someone who looked like him. It had just...happened. But Tom was a good man and it wasn't long until she realized she was absolutely head over heels in love with him. When he proposed, surprising her with the ring first thing in the morning on a trip to New York, she said yes without hesitation.

Things were good for a while until Sherlock came back. She'd hoped for that, longed for it, but she'd also dreaded it. People were going to be upset she knew the truth, that she'd lied to them, and she'd been right in thinking that. Tom took it especially badly. He didn't want her to see Sherlock that often outside of work. And she supposed he had every right to feel that way, but Sherlock was a friend, or at least he had started to become one when he had stayed with her. With as much as he had learned about her she had learned just as much about him. But she loved Tom, and after the case with the body at the desk she told Sherlock she couldn't do it again and he seemed to understand.

It got easier for a time, and then the wedding happened. Sherlock had tried to solve the murder, and when she had stabbed Tom's hand with the fork he'd taken offense to that. He was certainly right to feel that way, but she knew what Sherlock was doing was important and he hadn't needed the distraction. They'd had a row when they got back from the reception and she knew then it was the beginning of the end for them. A few months later she just didn't want to do it anymore and so she ended the engagement, giving Tom back the ring and sinking into a state of extreme sadness.

Sherlock's crack about her ring being off had been the absolute worst thing for him to say when he showed up high as a kite. He had no idea a lot of the problems had boiled down to him and their friendship. He didn't realize what being one of his friends had cost her and his flippant statement had angered her. But so much was going on that morning and it got tabled, and then one thing after another happened and it didn't seem so important. When she found out he'd shot the man who was the famous blackmailer she'd hung her head and shut her eyes and tried not to think about how everything was irrevocably different now.

He hadn't contacted her about what was going on, hadn't said a word to her about any of it all, and it was John that had to be the one to tell her he was going to be sent away. He'd come to her with an envelope, said Sherlock had wanted her to have it because he was going to be gone a long time and wouldn't be there in February. She'd taken the envelope from him and when John had left she'd studied it. It was the type a card would come in, and her name was written in his handwriting. It was in the envelope backward, and there was writing on the back that had nothing to do with her and coffee stains, as though he hadn't given much thought to it. She supposed that was typical Sherlock, though, and she shook her head and turned the card over anyway.

It was a simple white card with a thick black border. There were three red test tubes in the center, each one filled with various levels of red hearts. She knew her eyes were wide as she took in that Sherlock Holmes had sent her a Valentine's Day card. She smiled slightly once the shock wore off and opened the card. One one side there was another small beaker with hearts in the corner, and Sherlock had written part of a poem by Yeats in the blank space:

  
_Think where man's glory_   
_Most begins and ends_   
_And say my glory was_   
_That I had such friends._   


She ran her finger over it, her smile growing wider as she looked over at the other side. There was a note in his impeccable handwriting, a bit lengthier than she would have expected. She moved to her chair and sat down, reading it quietly in her mind as though he was saying it to her.

_Dear Molly,_

_I am sending this card early because in February I'll be abroad, undercover, and I wanted to say this while I had the chance._

_I once told John that I don't have friends, plural, but I was wrong. I do have friends, plural – – just a few, but in this case quality is preferable to quantity. I consider you to be a friend, Molly, one that I hold most dear._

_Thank you for everything._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock_

_P.S. Please forgive the excess of sentiment but impending exile does tend to make one a bit maudlin._

When she was done she stared at the card for a long moment, surprised to feel tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. She was his friend. After everything, after the hurt and pain and heartache, but also after the good times, he admitted they were friends. He had told her once again that she was important to him, that she mattered. And while she couldn't tell him that she felt the same, that she was glad she knew him, that she wanted him to be safe, she hoped he knew all that. She was fairly sure he did, but she hoped it just the same.


End file.
